


my heart swells like water and weight

by skvadern



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Begging, Complicated Relationships, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, Gunplay, Other, Praise Kink, liberal misuse of the word 'captain'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27375748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skvadern/pseuds/skvadern
Summary: Earhart needs to know if Cel can be trusted.
Relationships: Amelia Earhart/Celiquillithon "Cel" Sidebottom
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28
Collections: Femdom Exchange 2020





	my heart swells like water and weight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vogelwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vogelwrites/gifts).



> title from hardest of hearts by florence and the machine (maybe. i do not know if that lyric is correct. i do not care. no lyric site seems to have the correct version so i guessed. i am content with my choices)

Cel had suspected something was going to go wrong before they’d even walked into Earhart’s cabin. For one, Zolf hadn’t exactly looked thrilled about bringing them there in the first place; had even broken his otherwise stellar professionalism to mutter “Watch out, yeah? Just… I’m not saying you’ll say something dumb but… be careful.”

Once they laid eyes on Earhart, they’d understood exactly what Zolf had meant. She’s erratic, fractious, twitch and wide-eyed. The discussion about their engine capacity quickly devolves into Cel defending a bunch of their modifications – even ones that Earhart had agreed to at the start.

“Look, Captain Earhart,” they say at last, trying not to snap, “you know I have more experience with engineering than anyone else on board – in fact, probably more than anyone else you could have found in Hiroshima, and certainly more than anyone we could have afforded. If you don’t trust me with my job-“

Earhart rounds on them, eye burning. “ _Can_ I trust you? You’ve made your opinion on my leadership very clear in the past.”

Cel boggles. “Of course you can! Captain, I know we’ve had our, our differences, obviously, but if you seriously think I’d endanger the lives of everyone on this ship because I don’t _like_ y-“

Earhart has her gun unholstered.

Everything goes a bit quieter, a bit more in focus; danger does that for them, sometimes. The gun is small, smaller than some of the weapons Cel’s seen knocking around in America, nicely sized for Earhart’s hand. But with guns, size really _doesn’t_ matter all that much. At a certain point – that point being when it’s aimed at your head, in Cel’s experience – the size and speed of a bullet becomes, really, academic. Now, never let it be said that Cel doesn’t enjoy a good academic debate, goodness only knows they’ve picked their fair share of nits, but even they must sometimes accept that there’s a time and place.

Cel’s mouth closes with a snap.

Earhart looks at them sharply, then follows their gaze to her side. She smiles like a knife. “Seen one of these before, Mx Sidebottom?”

Cel nods.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Earhart continues, “what with your accent. I’m not necessarily going to kill you, but I’ve got to… got to know. If I can actually trust you.” For a single instant, her eyes flick down, something deadened and dark passing over her face, before her feverish eyes are back on Cel’s face.

Quietly, a little mournfully, Cel wonders what Earhart would have been like before her ship went down. Zolf had told them a little, and Hamid had told them more, about the LOLOMG’s first meeting with the captain, so Cel knows a little – and, of course, they have their own ideas about what a loss of that magnitude will do to someone. They think they’d have liked Earhart a whole lot, had they met her when she wasn’t this mass of jagged metal and apocalyptic despair, hurtling towards her end.

Mouth still firmly closed, they let their weakening knees give out. It feels so slow, their sinking progress to the floor, but soon they’re folded on their knees in front of the gnome, sitting back on their heels. Even like this, they’re taller than Earhart, but most of the distance is cut. Hopefully – please, _please_ – that’ll help.

Earhart is very still, eyes sharp and intent on Cel’s face. It’s hard, to keep their face still and blank, but Cel doesn’t want to give this weapon of a being anything she can use against them.

Painfully slowly, like a marionette with rusted joints, Earhart raises the gun. Steady as fate, it comes to rest against Cel’s forehead. The barrel is cool, a perfect circle of coolness, and Cel suddenly realises they have no idea if the thing is loaded or not.

Probably it is.

Heart beating in their throat, they let their eye fall closed.

For moments that stretch too long for Cel to keep track – not that they’ve ever had any sort of time sense anyway, that’s what clocks and stopwatches are for – they wait, in the semi-darkness behind their eyelids. If you asked them, they honestly couldn’t say what they’re waiting for.

They don’t think the captain is going to kill them. They don’t _think_. They also don’t _know_.

Earhart lets out a deep, gusting breath. “What am I going to do with you?” she mutters – almost to herself, Cel thinks. They don’t say anything – goodness only knows what the right answer would be, and they certainly aren’t going to. Terrible charisma, much as they hate to admit it.

They can’t quite keep from opening their eyes and raising an eyebrow, though. Just a little quirk, but Earhart notices, and her lips curve up slightly.

“I’m really not going to kill you,” she says and this time she actually sounds certain, which is nice.

“I know,” Cel replies, and what do you know, their voice doesn’t even shake. “I just figured that, you know… people like having control. Sometimes. Certain people, when they’re feeling, you know, kind of… powerless. And when they’re feeling really powerless, sometimes it’s nice to have a, ah, physical demonstration of their control over the situation. That’s not, not necessarily a bad thing…” They trail off at the look on Earhart’s face, the intensity in her eyes shifting from that worrying, paranoid fervour into something calmer, more focused.

The atmosphere – changes. Or rather, they suppose, it has changed, running slowly down a gradient until they arrive here, that slow, stomach-twisting heat rising in the space between them, and Cel’s only just noticed.

Earhart licks her lips, a flicker of pink tongue that Cel can’t help but fixate on, and very deliberately moves her finger as far from the trigger as she can while still holding the gun. Grip shifted, she starts to guide the gun downwards.

The barrel’s path is slow – not meandering, there’s a purpose here, but there’s no rush. It moves down their forehead, dipping into the skin between their eyes, before skipping over their nose, just tracing the cartilage. The metal, Cel notices, has warmed a little to their skin.

Earhart guides the gun over the tender furrow just under their nose, before the barrel comes to rest on their lips.

Cel can’t breathe, all of a sudden. The sensitive, nerve-rich skin of their lips tingles, and they could swear they can taste the oil that Earhart must use for upkeep. The gunpowder, a familiar taste, always a little exciting.

“It isn’t loaded,” Earhart says softly. Cel nods dizzily. Never let it be said that they can’t roll with the punches.

As slowly as Earhart moved the gun down their face, they part their lips. Let their jaw relax and then fall open, until the barrel of Earhart’s gun is resting just in front of their open mouth.

Earhart’s eyes skip down to their lips, and then up again. Meeting Cel’s, catching like magnets with opposing poles. Then she eases the gun into Cel’s mouth.

It’s awkward, even with the slim barrel, and while metal is a taste Cel ends up sampling perhaps more than they should, it’s not their favourite taste, not by a long way. Then again, that’s hardly the point, is it?

The _point_ is Earhart’s eyes fixed on the place where her gun disappears into them, on their lips stretching a little around it. The point is her mouth hanging slightly open, how she seems to have stopped breathing entirely, the flush high on her pale cheeks. The white heat of her gaze, fixed on them, unwavering, as she draws the barrel out again.

The slide of the metal over their tongue is stupidly, hopelessly erotic, and Cel barely bites back a moan as it rests against their lips again, mouth-warm and spit-soaked. When Earhart pushes it back in, they don’t manage to keep their whine back. They close their lips around it and suck, hollowing their cheeks, curling their tongue over the smooth metal. They’re careful to keep their eyes fixed on Earhart’s the whole time, and a prickle runs up their spine when they realise they can actually see her pupils widening, to hungry black pits.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Earhart pulls the gun out of their mouth. Cel can’t help a little whimper at its loss, tongue darting out, licking the residue from their lips. Earhart follows the movement with greedy eyes. Then she deliberately places her pistol down on her desk and backs up to her bed, sitting down with her legs spread.

“Come on, then,” she orders, and Cel scrambles forward. They have to hunch a little to put their head at the right height, Earhart’s bed is so low, but being bracketed in by Earhart’s thighs calms them immediately, easing some of the dizzy haze of encroaching subspace with the clarity of purpose.

They dip their head, mouthing over the rough fabric of Earhart’s trousers. They’re a tight pair, and this close, they can smell her, rich and alive.

“What are you waiting for, then?” Earhart snaps, but Cel doesn’t think they’re imagining the quaver in her voice. “Take them down and put that smart mouth of yours to better use.”

Cel’s mouth goes dry. Even past the slight tremor, the _command_ in Earhart’s voice – “Yes, Captain,” they whisper, as their hands dart to Earhart’s waistband. They unlace the fastening of her trousers as quickly as their shaking fingers can manage, before pulling them down her thighs – thin, far too thin, does she ever _eat?_

They realise, in one moment of vertigo as they ease Earhart’s underwear down, that this woman could break their heart, if they let her.

There’s a patch of slick burn-scar on Earhart’s hip, and Cel can see it spreads up her side, hidden under her shirt. They tear their eyes away, not wanting Earhart to see that they’ve noticed; it’s not exactly a hardship to focus on her _perfect_ cunt.

Gods, but it’s been too long, and Cel can already feel their mind slowing, the constant thrumming energy easing. It’s always nice, to have the world narrow down to another person’s body and the pleasure they can create from it, especially when that other person has them on their knees. Metaphorically, or literally. Especially literally.

The soft curls around Earhart’s cunt tickle against their lips as they lean in, letting their tongue slide flat against where the tip of Earhart’s clit peaks out from them. And fuck, if they’d thought they enjoyed the taste of gunpowder and steel and oil on their tongue, Earhart blows it out of the water. They push forward hungrily, dipping their tongue deep into her cunt, parting the blood-flushed lips and licking her clean of welling slick. The _size_ of their tongue compared to her cunt… they almost feel bad for how painfully hot that makes them.

Earhart indulges them for a moment, before fisting her tiny hand in her hair and tugging Cel’s head up with surprising strength. Cel goes with it, eyes fluttering at the delicious prickling over their scalp, at the casual direction. They close their mouth over Earhart’s clit, tiny and hard and perfect to suck on. They slide their tongue over it in slow, gentle pulls, setting up a gentle, rocking rhythm.

A gentle sigh from above them, as Earhart settles into it. “Clever tongue,” she murmurs, scratching gently at Cel’s scalp. The praise hits like a punch to the gut, powerfully lovely, and Cel twists their tongue under the hood of Earhart’s clit, circling the delicate head. There’s a spot on one side that seems especially sensitive, judging by how Earhart’s hips jerk a little whenever Cel hits it, so of course they focus on rubbing against it as often as they can.

Earhart’s fingers lace tight into their hair, pulling sharply, and Cel moans helplessly into her cunt as sparks of sensation flicker across their scalp. They squeeze their thighs together, luxuriating in the blood-fullness, the slow-burning spark of arousal low in their gut. They keep massaging their tongue against her, hazy with the taste of slick, speeding up just slightly and sucking as best they can.

When Earhart tugs again, even harder this time, Cel could swear they actually feel their cock twitch, painfully untouched. The urge to rock their hips forward, try to get any friction or even move a hand from their knees to press against themself, burns in them, but –

The captain hasn’t said they can, yet.

“Good, Cel,” Earhart groans, her voice cracking down the centre. She starts to rock her hips onto Cel’s mouth, slow, and then faster, until she’s basically riding Cel’s face. Cel can work with that; they point their tongue, keep still so that Earhart can set her own pace. It feels so good, to be used. To be nothing but a warm body for someone to enjoy.

They can feel their captain’s orgasm building, in the urgency of her hips and the rising pitch of her moans. As she loses her rhythm, Cel maintains it for her, moving their head in time with her hips, bearing down as her stomach muscles tense and her head tips back, flushed and slender throat bared.

Then Earhart’s hips are jolting, her thighs clenching tight around Cel’s ears. Cel rides her out, savouring the renewed gush of slick on their tongue, the knowledge that _they_ did this, _they_ pulled those sweet moans from their captain’s mouth.

Earhart comes down slowly, thighs loosening their grip as she slumps heavily, a deep, gusty sigh melting from her lips. “Fuck, that was good,” she mutters, almost to herself, but Cel still can’t help but preen.

She gets her breath back slowly, and as much as Cel is deeply enjoying watching her come down, all flushed cheeks and breasts heaving under the shirt she still hasn’t taken off, they can’t help but notice just how turned on they are. Their arousal aches under their skin, and as Earhart eases her trousers back up, they can’t bite back their whimper.

Earhart’s gaze snaps to them, a smirk blooming over her relaxed face. “You want to come, then?” One small hand comes up to cup their chin, thumb petting over one of their many little scars. They tip their head into the gentle touch, letting her take their weight.

“Yes, Captain.”

Earhart chuckles. “Yeah, alright. Maybe I’ll let you grind off against my leg, come in your trousers without a hand on you. Would you do that, if I asked? Get yourself filthy just because I told you to?”

“Yes, Captain,” Cel whispers, head swimming. Gods, it wouldn’t even take them that long, they feel like they’re burning up from the inside.

“Good.” Earhart grins, vicious and satisfied, smile widening when the praise pulls a tiny, almost hurt noise from Cel’s slack lips. “Good enough, maybe, to deserve a reward.” She pats the mattress beside her, sliding back to make room. “Up.”

Cel’s scrambling up almost before they register the word. They tear off their boots and follow Earhart’s pointed directions, lying on their back, chest heaving. Earhart’s bed is too small, really, for a fully grown half-elf, but with Cel’s knees drawn up, they just about fit.

Earhart moves between their legs, nudging them to spread wider. When Cel looks down, they somehow flush harder. They’re not particularly well-endowed, unless they’ve been taking certain potions, but with their thighs parted like this, the stretch of their tight trousers over their crotch is obscene.

“Slut,” Earhart murmurs, almost casually, tracing a single finger over the bulge. Cel whines helplessly. “Do you want me to touch you, then?”

Kneeling up like this, shoulders straight and relaxed, Cel thinks they can see the woman she used to be, settled into her own skin once more. It’s _painfully_ gorgeous.

“Yes, Captain,” they reply, their voice collapsing into a gasp as Earhart grinds her palm down gently, where they’re trapped and aching. “Please, Captain.”

“Well,” Earhart says, “since you’re so polite about it.” She grinds her palm down again before she moves to the fastening of their trousers, and Cel whimpers.

Earhart unlaces their trousers quickly, not even bothering to pull them down; she just tugs the fly open as far as it’ll go and unbuttons Cel’s pants, finally freeing them. The first touch of her dry, warm, _tiny_ hand makes Cel whimper, hips arching up, and Earhart laughs at her.

“My, you’re desperate, aren’t you? How hard did you get from me putting that gun in your face? How long have you wanted someone to put you on your knees?”

 _All my adult life?_ Cel thinks wildly. “Please, Captain,” they moan, and Earhart rewards them; both her hands are on them, one teasing the head and the other smoothing up and down their shaft, hot friction dancing on the edge of painful. It’s _perfect_.

“Look at you,” Earhart murmurs, still staring, drinking them in. “All that intelligence, and you can’t even string a sentence together. Flattering as hell, I won’t lie, knowing that I’ve got someone as sharp as you entirely at my mercy.”

And how exactly is Cel meant to be able to deal with that? “Ple- please, Captain, please –“

“Shhh, beautiful,” Earhart murmurs, thumb stroking over their glans, dipping into the slit just to see Cel’s hips arch as lightning cracks down their spine. “Come on, let me see you give it up for me.”

That does it – the clever hands on them, the commanding intensity in Earhart’s eyes, drinking them in like they’re a feast spread out just for her. Cel’s hips stutter upwards, pleasure hitting them like a whip, so wonderfully intense that for a second their mind is perfectly, entirely blank.

When their eyes slide open again, breath still coming back slowly and mind foggy and quiet as an autumn morning, they see Earhart crossing to the lidded water jug, soaking a towel. She doesn’t meet their eyes as she walks back to the bed, but when Cel reaches out to take it from her, she brushes their hand away. The swipes of the flannel across their stomach and cock are quick and business-like, but they can’t help squirming a little; it’s _cold_.

A small, warm hand settles on their belly, petting gently. Beneath it, Cel stills, and lets themself float again. Earhart has it handled.

When they finally swim back up to the surface, past the fine tremor that had caused Earhart to tuck a too-small blanket over their chest and hips and move to hold their head in her lap and stroke their hair, they feel… strange. A little unsettled, once their thoughts start crowding in again and they remember that this, as delightful as this was, had not exactly been negotiated. Had, in fact, began with someone threatening their life, a bit.

Possibly, the fact that they can no longer count the number of times that’s happened to them on one hand is a bit concerning.

Earhart is still combing through their hair, hands surprisingly gentle. When they chance a look upwards, they see that she’s not looking at them, just staring off into space, expression blank.

 _Have I proven myself, then?_ Cel thinks, and doesn’t say. They don’t want to break the quiet; for once in their life, they don’t want to push it. Instead, they reach up to rest a hand lightly on Earhart’s knee.

Earhart’s inhale is sharper than they’d like, like she’s been shocked out of something, but her eyes are a little clearer when she looks down at them. “How’re you doing, then?”

“Me? Oh, I’m great, never been better.” Cel flashes a bright grin, projecting _bright happy fine_ as hard as they can.

“Good to hear,” Earhart replies, and Cel can actually see the distance growing in her eyes, like watching smoke build in an enclosed room. She slips her hands out of their hair, and they bite back a despondent sigh.

“So I’ll just… I’ll go then? Don’t want my cabin getting lonely, after all.” They sit up, start to extricate themself from the blankets. This wouldn’t be the first time they’ve had to depart quickly, deal with the comedown on their own. They’ll be okay, they always are.

“Cel.”

Cel stills, halfway through tugging one of their boots towards them. When they glance over, Earhart is studiously not looking at them, eyes fixed on the deeply boring far wall.

“You can stay,” Earhart mutters; and, well, she doesn’t exactly sound delighted by the possibility, but Cel’s pretty sure she’s not the kind of person who’d say something like that if she didn’t mean it. Didn’t want it, on some level.

Even as they shuffle back to lie down on the bed, curling their legs up until they can actually slightly fit and resting their back against the wall, Cel’s aware this is kind of a bad idea. Hell, they might have been into the gun, but that doesn’t mean having it pointed at them in the first place was a safe, sane _or_ consensual thing. Even if it wasn’t loaded.

Earhart’s body is warm, next to them, almost feverishly so in that way gnomes are. Warmer still when she sighs and shuffles back, until her back is resting against their chest, her legs tucked against their thighs.

Cel doesn’t put an arm around her, as much as they want to. That’s not where the two of them are at. But they do let their lips come to rest gently against her short, slightly greasy hair. And Earhart doesn’t pull away. So that’s something.


End file.
